


Distant Fire

by dogmatix, norcumi



Series: Nightsisters [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, GFY, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Padawan must endure a Trial of Solitude. Anakin doesn't know that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distant Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This was spawned by a long ago tumblr conversation (Norcumi's notes have it bookmarked [HERE](http://norcumi.tumblr.com/tagged/nightsisters+AU)).
> 
> Many gleeful thanks to [Alyyks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel_neesan/pseuds/alyyks) and [MoreCivilizedAge](http://archiveofourown.org/users/morecivilizedage/pseuds/morecivilizedage) for betaing!

There were times when Obi-Wan greatly missed the freedoms allowed to padawans. The Council had insisted he present his report on the latest mission in person, as close to dawn as they could reasonably haul him out of bed.

Mid-morning sunlight slanted over the tips of his boots. So far he’d been waiting for three hours. He could only imagine what had arisen to bump him down the schedule, although since his report was about only mid-level diplomatic matters, it was no great surprise.

Still. The desire to fidget, or heave long-suffering sighs and slump in his chair, was near overwhelming. When he’d been a padawan, he and Qui-Gon had made a game of it, battling boredom by virtue of Qui-Gon “teaching” Obi-Wan ridiculous Force tricks. He’d learned to juggle after the Council had tossed a snit-fit and left them cooling their heels for an entire day, and his master had quite lost his patience only to insist that it was time Obi-Wan try something new.

Obi-Wan took in a slightly deeper breath than necessary, struggling to settle his emotions. It was a few weeks shy of a year since Qui-Gon died, and he still had to steady himself against the flare of pain at memories of his master. He’d awoken out of sorts in the first place, so he was just as glad that Master Billaba had asked if she might assess Anakin’s piloting skills via a quick trip to the Foerost shipyards. It was a short trip, and Anakin had immediately turned to him, expression hovering between the polite inquisitiveness of a proper padawan, and the flailing pleas of any small youngling.

He was quite grateful for the opportunity for at least one of them to have a good day, because after three hours of waiting, Obi-Wan’s patience was wearing thin.

When the Council finally let him in, he strode to the center of the room, running a quick mental checklist of talking points he needed to cover. “Thank you for your time, Councilors,” he said, reminding himself that he needed to have gentle sarcasm, _gentle_ when talking to–

His feet completed the walk to the appointed location while his brain stuttered to a halt. Master Billaba was there. She sat, serene, her expression fixed in polite interest. He automatically reached out to Anakin through the training bond, but the connection was faint, as if Anakin were at a great distance and only getting further away–

“No,” he somehow managed to croak out. “What have you done?” He’d thought they’d been _through_ this, that it had been settled! It was quite possible that the only thing keeping him in place was shock, and that several of the Council looked almost as unhappy about circumstances as he was.

Mace was not one of them. His expression was sour, exasperated as only Mace Windu could manage at his most disapproving. “We have discussed this multiple times–”

“And I thought I had made it clear that this is _absurd!_ ” Obi-Wan spat, interrupting Mace’s long-suffering, oh-so-serene _lecture_.

Master Billaba graced Obi-Wan with a faintly disapproving look. “Your student is quite the capable padawan,” she said, as if she hadn’t been in on this duplicity from the beginning. She had to have been in on it, she’d asked him – he’d trusted a master to treat his padawan with respect, not _betray_ him! “Do you still maintain he is not ready?”

He could barely rein in his temper, reminding himself that he had promised Qui-Gon, and even his near-rogue master would not have exploded at these _fools_. “He is the Chosen One –”

Yoda interrupted him with a loud _harumph_. “If Jedi the boy is to be, then Jedi he must be trained as! Nearly a year it has been, and tested within their first year, padawans are!”

He had to do this, for Anakin, for Qui-Gon, for some basic _decency,_ even if they had violated standard protocol and not told him, _warned_ him. “He has also spent his entire life as a slave, out in dangerous territory without–”

“Support, which is precisely what this test is about.” Mace was giving him a disapproving look verging upon a sneer. “We all expect him to come through with flying colors.” Deadpan, and not a smidgeon supportive.

A few sharp glances and the clack of Plo's finger-covers as he steepled his hands told Obi-Wan that Mace didn't have the full support of the Council on this, but that did neither Obi-Wan nor Anakin any good.

Obi-Wan hesitated, caught in an impossible position. Either Anakin hailed from a rough background, and could handle the Solitude Trial, or he was in need of coddling – meaning that the Chosen One was weak and incapable in a way that no Temple trained youngling was.

Ki-Adi broke the stalemate by diverting the conversation. “Your report, Knight Kenobi. What happened?”

He spat out his report on autopilot before woodenly thanking the Council for their gods damned time. Formalities thus observed and completed, Obi-wan drew himself up with all the dignity that Qui-Gon had managed to invest in him. “When does the Trial start?”

Yoda looked at him, expression grave. “Already begun, his Trial has.”

That was what he thought. Force take it. There was an increasing sense of distance through the bond to his padawan, a wall of fog going up between them. He tried to ignore it, to bite back the panic and bile as the feel of Anakin faded to something dull. It was becoming distant, almost foreign, and somehow, impossibly, this was a thousand times worse than that long ago day when his bond to Qui-Gon had simply blinked out of his senses. “Then if you’ll excuse me.”

“Perhaps you should consider some meditation,” Mace advised, and Obi-Wan took that as the dismissal it was meant as. He could feel the too-soft looks of useless _sympathy_ from several of the Councilors, but a quick glare at the closest made the cloying itch of pity dissipate somewhat.

A small part of him hoped that Master Plo would understand. The Kel Dor had been a close friend to Qui-Gon, so the sympathy was no surprise, but it did _nothing_.

Obi-Wan stalked back to his too-quiet quarters, then continued to pace, hands clasped tight around his wrists. The feeling of his mind wrapped up in muffling cloth, leaving him with no idea what the hells was going on with Anakin–

He did what any good master would. He paced, and he waited for his padawan to make it home.

Hating every moment of it.

* * *

Consciousness returned to Anakin with horrible slowness. It was dark, wherever he was. The cold metal underneath his cheek hummed quietly in a way he was pretty sure meant hyperspace travel, and he felt the insidious chill even more sharply than usual.

He wasn’t wearing his own clothes. The coarse woven, ill-sized tunic and pants he had on– he recognized the feel of it, it made him want to squirm right out of his skin, to fight or run or–

He’d been relieved when Obi-Wan had asked him why he always felt disgruntled when dressing. Obi-Wan had thought that the size was wrong, but it was the _feel_ of traditional Jedi garb – it was too close to Anakin’s slave clothes. They’d found other clothes for him, and while that made him stand out from other padawans, at least he wasn’t close to trying to tear off his own skin.

Through the emptiness in his head, and the numbness curled around his heart, Anakin felt stupid. He’d been an idiot. Gotten too pampered. The cloth the Jedi used in the majority of their gear was rough-woven and simple, but back in actual slave-wear, stinking of some other being’s sweat and blood and even less pleasant things, Anakin couldn’t believe he’d thought they were the same.

As numb as he was, he still hurt so very much, and the silence in his head was impossibly loud.

It had been a simple– well, it wasn’t even a mission, really. Master Billaba had asked him to help her with a delivery, with _flying_ , and that was no trouble at all. Flying was a _joy_ , and he was so glad Obi-Wan had been willing to let him. It had been a little disappointing to find that Master Billaba hadn’t been able to make the trip, but she’d passed the responsibility to her sister, Knight Labooda, who seemed nice enough.

He’d tried to be a good, polite padawan, and Knight Labooda had been pleased with his flying skills. She’d even sent him to make a delivery all on his own, while she took some parcels elsewhere. Ani had been chewing through the oddities of the Order as he carefully dropped off the small box, and he had been looking forward to asking the knight some questions when they were back on the shuttle. The Order...didn’t like family very much, yet a Master on the Council could acknowledge her sister. He wasn’t sure how that worked.

He still felt so guilty, so often, about Mom. He’d...left her. She had said she was okay, that she _would_ be okay, and he’d – he’d felt it. She was certain. The Force had been solid, and she’d be okay, but she was still a slave.

Just a little ways from the shop where he’d dropped off the package, Anakin had dropped to his knees, too stunned to even scream. He felt his connection to Obi-Wan _break_ , the link through the Force that Obi-Wan called the padawan bond snapping like a thin thread. A heartbeat later, the world went _dark_. Ani’s breath had sped up, scream locked behind a breaking heart, as he stared around at a noisy, bright street. He couldn’t _sense_ anything, he couldn’t _feel_ the world around him! His ears and eyes worked fine, but he couldn’t feel the minds of all the beings walking around him. He couldn’t match the looks people were giving him with disgust, or concern, or anything. Ani couldn’t feel the currents of life from the plants at windowsills, or the hints and whispers of the Force about simple little things, like moving over _here_ would mean _those_ people wouldn’t bump into him and it was too quiet he was alone in his head he couldn’t hear or feel and Obi-Wan was _gone_!

Obi-Wan loved the little platitudes, a quick sentence of reassurance or education. One of them was that the Force would always be with Anakin.

It wasn’t. It was totally gone, leaving him blind and deaf and alone, though he could see and hear all the people around him.

Obi-Wan was gone too. There’d been just enough time to feel the connection to his master blinking out of existence, and gods take it, that had been the _last_ thing he felt in the Force. The only thing Anakin could imagine breaking their bond like that would mean Obi-Wan was dead.

Somehow, he’d managed to stagger back to the spaceport. Through that unreal sensation, like he was living a holo instead of his own life, it wasn’t even a surprise that the ship was gone. Knight Labooda was gone. It wasn’t even a surprise that the few people he managed to talk coherently to had no idea who or what he was asking about.

The sensation of being caught in a nightmare only got worse when the Zeltron he asked lit up. Ani was backing away even as the man was reassuring him that of course, he’d seen the lady right over here.

Anakin wasn’t an idiot. He tried to get away, but he didn’t have the Force. He couldn’t get his body to do what he wanted, _needed_ it to do, so his lightsaber was almost useless.

The burns he’d given the slavers had only made them angrier.

Useless.

He didn’t have the Force. Couldn’t be a Jedi, if he didn’t have the Force.

Didn’t have Obi-Wan. His friend, the mentor and kind of brother, even if he wasn’t supposed to consider the man that because family was bad, Attachment was bad. He hadn’t been there, and now Obi-Wan was dead.

No family, either. Mom was still a slave, still on Tatooine, and Ani had done exactly nothing in his almost a year as a Jedi to fix that.

Now he didn’t even have his freedom. So hard won, and gone in minutes. Anakin lay in the darkness, sobbing and trying to feel nothing at all.

* * *

Yivrin sighed, hiding her distaste underneath a facade of boredom. The slavers made her skin crawl, but the Clanmother – and the Force, supposedly – had insisted.

It all felt pretty absurd. The Deep Mists clan didn’t dabble in slavery. Their magics danced through the Dark as much as the Light, but any sane Nightsister knew that arbitrary divisions of the Force were for Jedi. The Force _was_ , without being inherently anything.

Slavery, however, did a lot to twist the atmosphere towards the Dark, and that made for very poor living conditions. They left that sort of thing to the Dark clans, the ones who enjoyed their shadows and nasty little feuds.

For all that, here she was, at the small spaceport that was the main contact point Dathomir had with the rest of the galaxy. The market itself lay in the center of a small plain, little more than some animal pens and a few lean-to’s where wares could be exhibited. Exotic animals and food, as well as the harder to find or impossible to repair mechanical parts made up most of the goods on offer, traded for animals, poisons, and local foodstuff, as well as credits. A few Nightbrothers skulked around the edges, careful to steer clear of the three Witches that walked the stalls. Given that at least two of those were Nightsisters from Talzin’s clan, that was a sensible precaution. There was also a slave market, although the pickings were meagre – even Nightsisters who dealt with slaves preferred Nightbrothers to foreigners. Yivrin gave an irked smile-that-wasn’t to the Trandoshan slaver, who bared his fangs in return. “Let me see your wares,” Yivrin commanded.

Mother Vaala had sent her to purchase a slave. Dear gods and spirits, this was awful. Yivrin was the most Force-sensitive in the clan, after their Mother, so when Mother Vaala had woken with the Force singing, _dancing_ with possibilities centering around a lizard-like slaver–

Well. What was a sister to do?

The Trandoshan snarled something at his flunkies, who trotted out almost two dozen various humanoids. Yivrin hid a wince, so she lifted her chin and started to march down the line as if she knew what she were doing. All she knew was that Mother Vaala commanded, and she would find...whatever it was that made the Force so excited. Her best guess was that it had to be a new sister, outside blood to add to the clan.

Not one of the beings called to her. She walked back and forth, examining each beaten, miserable sentient. She had to remind herself that the clan’s funds could only stretch so far, and even a single slave would tax those resources. She literally could not afford to be wrong. So Yivrin opened herself further to the Force, bracing herself against the battering Dark emotions.

It was the despair she noticed first, a concentrated amount of sullen, tired hopelessness. She tracked it back to a boy, head recently shaved and an attitude as beaten as his face. There was something... _foggy_ about him. She’d never felt anything like it.

Admittedly, her skills were more about healing than detecting. Or...well... _anything_ else. Somehow, though, something about the boy kept calling to her. Yivrin kept coming back to him, looking him over, and not knowing why.

One of the Trandoshan’s flunkies hissed something to one of the others, and Yivrin had to fight to keep her face expressionless. She didn’t know much Huttese, but she knew enough to understand that that lovely little comment had been about her.

The boy, though. He flushed and sent an ugly glare at the guard that ought to have killed the bastard on the spot. It _hurt_ , because she could see it had nothing to do with him, and all the muted fury and hate was on her behalf.

To all the hells with it. “What is your name?” she asked, voice quiet for privacy yet indifferent for protection. He didn’t meet her eyes, or say anything. He just shrugged, sullenness slipping into despair again.

 _Hm. Damaged, but not broken, not yet._ Yivrin glanced around, but none of the others called to her. So be it. “This one. How much?”

* * *

Anakin watched the tattooed woman haggle for him, and he felt another piece of himself break off and fly away. Sold again. Gods, he couldn’t even manage to escape, or...anything.

It hurt because she looked kind. Not the type that bought you and turned around and used or abused you – he knew the type – but legitimately decent.

She reminded him of Mom, something about the eyes. Almost as bad was the pinched look she had as she took the controls for his slave collar – less reliable than an implanted explosive, but quicker and cheaper. She’d spent too much money on him. He wondered briefly how much over budget she’d gone.

He followed at her heels as she went to a banged up old speeder, silently getting into the seat as she took the wheel. They were nearly a klick away from the market when she spoke. “I’m Yivrin.” She glanced over at him. “We don’t usually keep slaves.” No, they never did. Extenuating circumstances, that was the usual excuse.

Ani wished he could muster the energy to care about it.

“What’s your name? Is there something you like to be called?”

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. They – whoever ‘they’ were – would call him what they wanted. Anakin Skywalker was a failed Jedi, who had failed his master, his mother, and himself. No, he didn’t really want to be called that.

The landscape they went through was strange, dark and damp with bizarre trees looming around them. Somewhere in the middle of what he guessed might be called a forest, there were several wooden structures, ranging from huts to an elaborately carved hall. A variety of women – some of them tattooed near-humans like his new owner, some humans, some Zabraks – were doing things to the plants around the place. They watched him and Yivrin walk inside one of the larger houses, their eyes an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders.

They ended up in a small, private room, dominated by an older female, of the same species as Yivrin. She was a bit heavyset, with strong shoulders and a piercing expression to her as she looked him over.

“Well now,” she murmured, “this is not what I expected.”

His breath huffed out just a little. Not a surprise, that.

From the look she gave him, she’d heard the noise. She didn’t call him on it, though. Instead she looked over at Yivrin, the two wordlessly keeping eye-contact for a time.

He fought down a surge of jealous, wounded longing. They had to be using the Force.

Yivrin finally nodded to the older woman, then gave a quick, polite nod to him before leaving.

“I am Mother Vaala,” the older woman declared, leaning forward to look at him. Then, to his surprise, she gestured to another chair. “Please, sit.”

He hesitated, then sat. A direct order, even if it went against most common rules.

He was surprised that he didn’t get punished for it, though she did seem to stare right though him. She finally shook her head. “You don’t seem to be special, child. Why would your presence make the Force dance?” He looked away, because there was no answer. Instead of the cuff or order he expected, there was a sigh. “What do I call you?”

He made himself speak. “Whatever you want.”

“Well, I would prefer to use your name.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have one that’s worth using.”

Vaala watched him for another long, painful moment, then she nodded. “No answers, no name, and no presence in the Force. Hm. Might I cast some magic on you?”

Magic? Magic wasn’t real. He shrugged again, but apparently that was good enough for the woman. He blinked and pulled back a little as she began to weave her hands through the air, chanting soft and repetitive in some language he didn’t know. His eyes went wide as an eldritch green glow lit up her face, as if her eyes were starting to leak glowing green mist. More of the same mist appeared between her fingers, and she seemed to be spinning it into some contorted shape. Then she flicked it in his direction. The whole smoky structure flowed through the air, wrapping around him, sinking into him, and he gasped as the tendrils of green Force moved through him. It was a drink after a long day in the desert, soaking in even as it evaporated. He could _feel_ it, but it remained out of his reach, taunting him. He wanted _more_ of the comforting feel of something beyond his own paltry, human senses.

The green smoke dissipated, and with it his sense of the Force. He had to bite his lip till it bled to keep from crying. He– he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. A few shuddering breaths, and he was in control again. He looked up, only to find Vaala was watching him with a very, very strange expression.

“I’ve never felt such strength,” she said, a touch of wonder in her voice. “The Force is very strong with you.” He was shaking his head, but she held up a hand. “There is...a block, a stoppage of some sort. I’ve no idea what could cause that, nor what could break it.”

“I’m– The Force is still there?” He didn’t know if he should be horrified, or maybe excited. Maybe...maybe someone could fix it? He forced the excitement down. _Lot of good it would do anyone. Obi-Wan– Obi-Wan’s still gone. I owe these people, if they fix it I’d owe them even more and I can’t help Mom if I’m doing that._ No, it didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter.

“Of course it is.” It was a bit surprising there wasn’t a shred of her talking down to him, though. “The Force doesn’t just up and walk away.” He almost grinned at that, but it was too much like something Obi-Wan would say, gentle but wry and – He bit down more tears. She must have seen that, the way she sat back, gathering up herself to convey Something Important. “Listen closely. Whatever has done this, it is tied to _you_. Your presence in the Force, the way you fit into the world. That could provide a solution around the problem, but it would be...difficult.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your Force presence is a representation of you. That is what we would change.” She hesitated, this strange woman who’d made mist appear and dance in a way he was still trying to understand. “A ritual of adoption into our clan would do so, but that’s not a choice to be made light–”

“Does it mean I’d have the Force back?”

She gave him a look, a painful, far-too-familiar look. “You will not be quite _you_ anymore.”

He tried not to roll his eyes. He wasn’t him as it was!

Besides. Anakin Skywalker...wasn’t really...something worthwhile to be.

He bit his lip. “But if you did it, the Force would come back? And– and I could stay here?” Not that he suspected he’d have much choice, but better strings than being cut loose with nothing.

“Yes.”

He made himself take a few moments, but it was all there, rubbed in his face. Not a padawan without a master, not a Jedi without the Force, not even someone who could make a difference, not without his freedom.

“I wanna do it.”

He had to wait through a narrow-eyed look. Mother Vaala finally sighed. “Then what say you to an...arrangement? We do not keep slaves. You are free to go, afterwards, though I must warn you that there are more dangerous clans of Nightsisters out there, as well as more ‘Lightside’ ones, as the Jedi would call them.” She saw his flinch at the mention of the Jedi, but didn’t comment. “For what it is worth, we are the Deep Mists clan, and we work to understand the places between the light and the dark. We are happy to work with you, but it is dangerous beyond the borders of our home.”

He nodded. That was fair, and even without the Force, it didn’t sound like a lie. “And?”

“Take some time, learn of us and our family. Learn if we would suit you, while I research the old lore and see if our magics will indeed fix things, make them worse, or have horribly explosive side effects.”

He grinned in spite of himself, reassured at comforting casualness instead of the Jedi formality. He’d...missed that. “So you’ll...let me know when you know?”

He was a little surprised at the firm smile he got. “Yes, child, I shall.” She reached out and pulled the slave collar off of him – he didn’t know when she’d deactivated it, but he was starting to get the idea that she was sneaky. “Yivrin will meet you outside.” Vaala turned away, using the Force to pull a book and several old scrolls from the shelves.

He walked out, trying not to hope too much, trying not to feel too hurt and jealous about the ease with which she had used the Force.

* * *

Obi-Wan was more than a little surprised that he hadn’t paced a hole into the floor of his quarters. It had been almost three weeks. No word, no _sign_ of Anakin, _nothing_. Plo kept stopping by, checking in on him, and lingering until Obi-Wan pretty much Force tossed the man out.

There had to be something he could do. To hells with tradition, to hells with the damned Trial, he couldn’t just sit in the Temple and _mope_ when–

He forced himself to still, and breathe deep. Every padawan went through this. It was awful, and he’d hated it, even if Qui-Gon had broken with tradition to pull him aside one ordinary morning as he’d gone off to lessons. “Solitude Trial. Today.” He’d put a reassuring hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, but there’d been nothing in the Force – most unusual for Qui-Gon.

As a part of his lessons, he and several others had been sent out around Coruscant, to get active experience “in the field” dealing with various parties. He’d felt it, as the block around his connection to the Force had built up, swift and sharp – a kindness, he now thought of it, as compared to the slow growth that Qui-Gon must have been feeling all day. No wonder he’d come back to find his master stinking drunk under the watchful, sympathetic eyes of Micah Giett and Plo Koon.

Obi-Wan had survived Xanatos, and Melida/Daan. Traveling across Coruscant without the Force was annoying, but no hardship. The Solitude Trial was meant to make sure a padawan could indeed handle themselves without the Force, that they could stand on their own without depending too much upon anything but themselves. It was to test a padawan’s loyalty to the Order and suitability to be a Jedi even under the worst conditions, a lesson in humility and a reminder that even with their many gifts, Jedi were equal of the world around them.

The Council would determine where a given padawan was to be stranded, and while off-planet starting points were not unheard of, they were by far in the minority - a fact that did not escape Obi-Wan's irate attention. Foerost might be a mere hop away from Coruscant, in galactic terms, but it was still the furthest starting point of any test he'd ever heard of.

Given Obi-Wan's field experience even at the early age of thirteen, all he'd gotten had been the equivalent of being sent several blocks away in a very nice, quiet neighborhood with convenient street maps. The worst part had been the quietness around him, the shivering difference between what his eyes and ears could tell him, and what was missing in the Force.

Still. Even from another planet, it should not have taken Anakin more than a day to make it back.

Obi-Wan stilled as something foreign crept across his befogged connection to Anakin. He had only a moment to grasp the strange sensation, then the padawan bond dissolved.

His legs gave out. This was not supposed to happen. Someone in his room was murmuring a swift chant of “no” over and over again. This was not supposed to happen. The tiniest bit of hope was that this wasn’t death; this was something else, something unwinding the connection between them. With the wall of Force between them, Obi-Wan had no idea _what_ could be doing that, if it was somehow voluntary or–

Little gods, this was why the trial happened within the padawan’s first year: they had not yet learned any skills that, unsupervised, could accidentally lead to this sort of thing.

Obi-Wan scooched back until he was braced against the wall, making himself breathe in a regular pattern. He’d failed. He’d failed Qui-Gon. He’d failed _Anakin._ Some Jedi he was turning out to be. Some _Master_. He had absolutely no idea what the hell to do, but– He took in a long, deliberate breath. By the Force, he had to do _something_. He had failed, and someone had gone and unraveled the bond between himself and Anakin.

He would find them. They would answer to Knight Kenobi, who had killed a Sith for his Trials.

He would bring Anakin _home_.

* * *

The swirling green mists evaporated as the last soft chants of the Nightsisters died away. There had been a lot of strange, lyrical syllables. The mists had enveloped him, then, oh Force, it had begun to _reshape_ , to rearrange. It had begun with his body, crept up into his mind, and Ani had felt the blockage, or whatever it was, bend until it shattered, clearing away to leave the wonderful pulse and thrum of the Force everywhere, enveloping and intertwining every part of– of _her_ body.

Ani opened up her eyes, sitting up slowly and feeling the strange new play and balance of a body different from what had been just minutes before. Mother Vaala watched her closely, arms folded and serene, patient expression on her face.

“Welcome, child mine,” Mother Vaala declared, ritual thick in her voice and following the threads of the Force that still twined and sang within Ani. “The Deep Mists embrace and accept you, for you are now our sister and kin. In this new life, have you a name you wish to bear, daughter?”

They hadn’t warned her about this part. Somehow she wasn’t too surprised – the Nightsisters didn’t seem like the kind to give an easy pass for much of anything. She considered for a moment, weighing identities and baggage. Mom was waiting for Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, future Jedi and student of Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, both of whom were dead now.

No. That wasn’t her anymore.

“Anakin,” she declared. “Just Anakin.”

 


End file.
